


i hope it's love. (i'm trying really hard to make it love.)

by punkrockdog



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Fix-It, Lack of Communication, M/M, does not canon compliant apply?? like. not real life compliant., dustinchris is v background tho!!!, oscar winning rpf, stupid dumb idiot gays who i HATE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockdog/pseuds/punkrockdog
Summary: the one where mark realizes what he lost and his friends help him get it back.(title from richard siken)
Relationships: Chris Hughes/Dustin Moskovitz, Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 112





	i hope it's love. (i'm trying really hard to make it love.)

Mark swears that he doesn’t remember going to Eduardo’s dorm. 

What he _does_ remember is getting nearly black out drunk and stumbling blindly around campus. 

That’s what Mark tells Eduardo as he hugs the toilet bowl. His eyes are glassy and his speech is way too slurred to be taken seriously. Eduardo just shakes his head a little, trying not to laugh. Mark hates it when he thinks people are making fun of him.

“I am way too drunk,” Mark says. Eduardo just rolls his eyes, rubs the space where Mark’s shoulder meets his neck. Mark has migrated from clinging to the toilet to slumping against the wall, eyes closed against the white light of the bathroom. 

“I know that, Mark. My roommates know that. What happened, dude?” Eduardo asks. His voice, firm and soft all at once, clears some of the fog out of Mark’s head. 

“I couldn’t-” he stops for a second, furrows his eyebrows, pouts. Eduardo’s eyes slip down to Mark’s mouth for a split second, and he almost forgets why he’s so angry. But then he remembers and gets upset all over again. 

“I couldn’t make the code work. I couldn’t make the _fucking code work,_ and I- I can’t do that, and I-”

“Hey,” Eduardo says, moving to kneel next to Mark. “You’ll figure it out, Mark.”

“But what if I don’t?” Mark spits, and God, this is fucking embarassing. He’s not insecure. He just- if he can’t make code work, if he can’t get all the stupid numbers and letters to do what he wants them to, then what can he do? Not much, it turns out. 

“You will, man. You’re one of- fuck it, you’re _the_ smartest person I know. Don’t tell sober you I said that,” Eduardo says, breathing out on a laugh. Mark smiles. 

Without thinking, he tips forward to lean his forehead on Eduardo’s shoulder. The angle is odd; Eduardo is more next to him than in front of him, but every place their bodies touch is warm, and Wardo’s jacket smells like soap and snow and him. All Mark can think is _oh, there he is._

Oh, there he is, and he’s gone completely still under Mark. Which is _weird,_ because Eduardo is always moving. That’s something Mark likes about their friendship. Eduardo is just as fidgety him; if Mark’s fingers start twitching, he can count on Eduardo bouncing his leg, or rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, or tapping out whatever song he has stuck in his head on the tops of his thighs. So this- the whole still, unmoving, corpse-like posture thing- is unnerving. Mark leans back, slumping against the wall again.

“Wardo,” Mark says softly. Eduardo’s throat clicks as he swallows. 

“You should go to bed,” Eduardo says quietly, and Mark frowns. He doesn’t _want_ to go to bed, he thinks childishly. He _wants_ to stay here with Eduardo, here in the bathroom where it’s safe and quiet and no one is asking anything of him. 

“Don’t wanna,” he argues. He settles further into the wall, shifting away from Wardo. 

“You can stay here, but please, you can’t pass out in my bathroom. The couch is plenty comfortable,” Eduardo says as he begins to move, hooking his arms under Mark’s and attempting to pull him up. 

Mark wiggles himself into a more dignified position; an arm slung over Eduardo’s shoulders so he can lean most of his weight against him. Eduardo has an arm locked around Mark’s waist, and Mark’s skin feels hot where Wardo’s hand is pressing against his hip. 

They fall onto the couch in a pile, and Mark laughs a little as Wardo shoves his legs off of his lap. 

“I am way too drunk,” Mark says again. Eduardo looks over and gives him- not a smile, but an understanding quirk of his mouth. Something on the brink of amusement and affection. 

They don’t say anything for a few minutes. The horrible pressure in Mark’s head subsides a little bit, and his vision starts to get gradually less fuzzy. Eduardo is looking ahead at the turned off television, face perfectly blank except for the slight droop of his mouth. Mark gets the overwhelming urge to reach over and touch, poke and prod and pull until Eduardo’s lips stop looking so sad. He wants to lean over and press their mouths together in the hopes of producing a smile. 

“Go to sleep, Mark,” Eduardo says. He’s caught him looking, their eyes locked in some pathetic staring contest. Pathetic only in the way that everything is bubbling just on the surface and neither of them even notice. 

“Why are you so nice to me, Wardo?” Mark asks, still maintaining eye contact. He won’t be the first one to look away. He won’t lose. 

Eduardo’s throat bobs almost comically. His jaw sets strangely, like his mouth is full. He looks like he wants to say something but has thought better of it. (He looks like he wants to say something despite knowing the consequences.)

“That’s what friends do,” he says quietly. He looks away. Mark keeps looking at him. 

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I thought so.”

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?” Mark asks. Eduardo looks back at him, mouth slightly agape. 

“No, of course not, why-“

“You have to tell me the truth, Wardo.”

That’s how Mark knows he’s fucking wasted. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead, he doesn’t ask people to show emotion, to _tell the truth._

“You’re drunk. You should go to sleep,” Eduardo says, starting to get up from the couch and move towards his bedroom. 

Mark reaches out and grabs Eduardo’s wrist. Eduardo stills. 

“I’ve thought about kissing you.”

Eduardo breathes in, closes his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling and lets out a shaky breath. His wrist is still in Mark’s hold. 

“Go to sleep,” is what he ends up saying. He won’t look at Mark. Mark tries to pull him closer, but he’s drunk and Eduardo digs his feet into the floor, so he just frowns up at Eduardo, pouting a little bit for the second time tonight (and probably the second time in his life). But Eduardo doesn’t look at his mouth this time. He stares firmly into Mark’s eyes, almost like he’s trying very hard not to look anywhere else. 

“Stay,” Mark whispers. Eduardo shakes his hand free from Mark’s. 

“Sleep,” Wardo whispers back. 

He turns on his heel and marches to his room, closing the door with a quiet _click._ Mark feels weird, empty and off kilter and, if he’s being honest with himself, kind of sad. He shifts, pulls the throw blanket down and around himself, and shuts his eyes. Lying horizontally is making him feel nauseous again, so he figures going to sleep will prevent any more trips to the bathroom. 

(He wakes up around four and stumbles blearily to the toilet. As he dry heaves, he feels a warm hand on his back, and someone shoves a cup of water at him. Before he has a chance to turn around and scold Wardo for getting out of bed just because his stomach hurts, arms wrap around his middle and a warm, solid weight settles itself onto Mark’s back. They sit there like that, in the bathroom fucking _cuddling,_ for a few quiet minutes. Wardo gets up to go back to bed, but before he stands up, he leans forward a touch and presses a kiss to the side of Mark’s throat. He presses another behind his ear, and one more at the nape of his neck. Mark feels himself get warm from the inside out; an awkward tugging beginning in his stomach. He sits there for a few more minutes trying to decide if that really happened or not.) 

When Mark wakes up again, at a much more reasonable time and feeling much less likely to vomit at any moment, the dorm feels strangely empty. He sits up carefully. His head still feels a bit foggy, and he tries very hard to remember how last night went. He can pull out bits and pieces, but they’re fuzzy and incomplete. He remembers the relief of warmth after being cold for so long, slumping against the wall of Wardo’s bathroom, tumbling onto the couch. 

He remembers _kiss,_ saying _I’ve thought about kissing you,_ remembers asking Wardo to stay and Wardo leaving anyways. He remembers Eduardo fucking _kissing him._

He stands up a little too quickly, but the overwhelming feeling of dread distracts him from his hangover. He grabs his hoodie, shoves his feet into his flip flops. He does a quick once over of the dorm to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything. 

Then he sees it. 

On the counter of the kitchenette sits a coffee, a muffin, and what looks like a post-it note. Mark approaches the to-go cup and plastic packaging with caution, like at any moment it could come alive and bite his fucking hand off. It just feels so… _domestic._ It feels like Wardo is his wife, handing him a paper lunch bag and kissing his cheek before sending him off to work. (Wardo would totally be the wife out of the two of them, doting and nagging and beautiful. Not that Mark would ever marry him or anything.)

He glances at the note. 

_hey sleeping beauty. you’re gonna be late for art history. consider skipping. - e.s._

A smile spreads across his face. Wardo knows that he never goes to the Art History lectures, hangover or not. He takes a sip of the coffee and is pleased to find it both warm and tasting a lot like cinnamon. (He feels a little bit proud that Eduardo knows how he likes his coffee, too.)

He makes the trek back to his dorm, trying to remember where he left off on his coding last night (pre-screwdriver bananza) and what made him stop. The snow on the ground is thick and very, very cold, but the coffee in his hands and the feeling in his chest keep him plenty warm. 

When he lets himself into the suite, he’s pleased to find it empty and quiet. He sits down heavy in his desk chair, leaning forward to put his elbows on the desk, to put his head in his hands. 

He knows he should be more worried, more freaked out. He figures he should be confronting Eduardo, get up in his face and ask him _what do I mean to you? Where do we go after this?_

But that would change things. What he and Wardo have- it’s good, it’s familiar, it’s stable. Unchanging and sturdy. He knows that talking about what happened last night would only muddle things. He’s not even sure if he’s… you know. Into Wardo like _that._ What if last night was just a fluke? A drunken, confused mix of proximity and warmth and mixed signals. 

(A small, small part of him is worried that Wardo won’t want him fully. That his love for Mark is purely worshipful. Completely conditional until he finds something better. It scares him more than he’ll ever admit.)

He cracks his knuckles and shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. Wiring in will make him stop thinking about this. Wiring in will make everything else melt into nothing, until it’s just him and his computer. Just him and thefacebook. He can handle that. 

___

Years go by before Mark thinks about that night in Eduardo’s dorm again. Thefacebook has become Facebook, Mark has become a billionaire, and he and Eduardo have become... not enemies, per se, but something close. _Nemesis adjacent._

He’s buzzed, just on the edge of sober and totally blasted. He’s drinking screwdrivers, that’s why he thinks about that night. (That’s how he reasons it to himself, at least. It’s definitely not because he misses Wardo so much it’s started to manifest as a physical pain in his chest each time he thinks about his stupid hair and his stupid doe-eyes and his stupid fucking mouth.)

Dustin is on his left, the only reason he’s even drinking screwdrivers, the only reason he’s consuming anything close to a fruit or a vegetable. He’s babbling about something, or he _was_ until he looked over at Mark and went silent. 

“Dude, are you crying?”

When Mark reaches up to wipe at his cheeks, his sleeve comes back wet. Huh. That’s a- that’s a new development. Interesting. 

“Are you like… okay?” Dustin asks when Mark just stares blankly at his hand. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he snaps, but it comes out stuffy and choked up. Fuck. 

“Uh, because I was talking about Star Wars and I looked over to see you bawling your fucking eyes out?”

Mark just groans and leans forward to put his elbows on his knees. Dustin inches a little bit closer, places a tentative hand on Mark’s back. 

“Is this about… you know… the uh,” Dustin trails off. Mark hiccups, somewhere between a snort and a sob. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. He’s really, really not, but if he says it enough, maybe it’ll be true. 

Dustin just shakes his head and moves to switch off the television. Mark doesn’t know _why,_ but he’s still staring hard at the floor and he doesn’t feel like looking up to see whatever brand of pity is splashed across Dustin’s face. 

“We’re talking,” he says decisively. 

“We don’t need to,” Mark bites out, but his eyes are still wet and he’s still sniffly so fuck, they might as well. 

There’s a beat of silence. It’d be easier if Chris was here. His no nonsense but understanding way of dealing with things. It’d be a hundred times easier if Eduardo was here. He was always the emotions guy. 

_I’m the guy that wants to help._

Mark feels another lump form in his throat, and he swallows hard before it turns into more crying. 

“You miss him,” Dustin says, his voice tilting up almost like he’s asking a question. 

“He was my best friend,” Mark says bitterly. Of fucking course he misses Wardo. 

“Call him, then.”

“He hates me, Dustin. I don’t think he’d speak to me if I was dying.”

He braves a glance at Dustin. His face has shifted into something sad and secret; compassionate and melancholy all at once. He also looks like Mark is the biggest idiot he’s ever met. 

“He doesn’t hate you, Mark. Call him. Or text him, or email him, I don’t know. Reach out. You might be surprised.” 

Mark doesn’t think anything can surprise him anymore. If someone had told him a few years ago that Facebook turned out to be one of the biggest websites in the world, well, he wouldn’t be _surprised,_ but he’d have some questions. If someone had told him that there was a future where Eduardo wasn’t his friend, that he stopped being a warm, reliable constant in Mark’s life, he’d have a lot more questions and he probably would have done something stupid, like kiss Wardo or tell him he loved him or ask him to forgive him for something he hasn’t done yet. 

His stomach lurches as he reminds himself that he lost (betrayed, threw away, fucked over) one of the few people who was willing to put up with him for an extended period of time. That he completely did away with someone who cared about him enough to look after him while he was pathetic, drunk, and vomiting. 

“Mark, what you did was… yeah, okay, it was fucked up. But that was a long time ago.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Shut up. Eduardo is a mature guy. Even if he hasn’t moved on, he might… he might be more willing to listen.”

There’s a sureness in Dustin’s voice, like he knows what he’s saying is true. It scares Mark a lot, the idea that Dustin and Eduardo have talked about him and the depositions and everything that came afterward. He looks back at the floor. 

“I’m serious. Talk to him. For the love of Christ, stop being so goddamn proud and give the guy a call.”

And that sounds an awful lot like Chris, which is interesting because Dustin has never been the mature or conclusive one the way that Chris has. Maybe they’ve been spending too much time together. Mark should really get on that because if he’s going to have two control freaks lecturing him on his own emotions, he’d like to put a stop to it as soon as possible. 

“Can we play Mario Kart or something?” Mark asks instead of addressing what Dustin said, because if he starts talking now he might say too much, and where would his reputation be then?

“As much as I’d love to school your ass, you should probably go to bed. Something tells me you have a lot of getting over yourself to do tomorrow.” 

With that, Dustin jumps up from the couch and heads toward the door, but not without shouting some bullshit about Mark being _a stupid, dumb baby who can’t even handle his own feelings_ over his shoulder. Which is rude and redundant but not untrue. 

Mark sinks back against the couch. His heart is pounding and there’s a sick sort of burning feeling in his veins. It feels a little bit like shame, which means he is definitely _way_ too drunk and needs to go to sleep immediately. 

He drags himself upstairs. The walk to his bedroom on lonely nights is always kind of sad. He has to pass his four empty guestrooms and his shitty upstairs office, and he’s reminded for probably the hundredth time that he doesn’t have enough friends. He barely has any at this point. Because he’s gotten jaded, cynical, downright _mean._

He tugs his hoodie over his head and shimmies out of his jeans. His bed groans as he tosses himself down, and he shuts his eyes hard. Sleep comes quickly and, thank God, without any dreams. 

That doesn’t stop him from waking up much too early and staring blankly at the wall, willing sleep back and thoughts of Wardo _away._ He’s cold. Eduardo was always a very warm person. If he was here- well, okay. Even if they were still friends, that doesn’t mean he’d be in Mark’s bed. They weren’t like that. Wardo didn’t feel that way. About him. If he did, he would’ve said something, right? Right?

He doesn’t manage to get back to sleep, so he heads into work a little bit early. His hangover isn’t too bad (nothing a lot of caffeine and coding can’t fix), but Dustin seems hellbent on making sure he gets a headache anyways. 

“Mark,” he sings, dragging out the A. “Have you talked to our poor, sweet Wardo yet?”

“Mark and Eduardo are talking again?” Chris asks as he lets himself into Mark’s office, which no one is supposed to go into unless it’s for _important business reasons._ Mark sulking over his former best friend hardly seems to qualify. 

“No, but they’re about to be,” Dustin says. He grins at Chris, who smiles a little bashfully and looks down. Another interesting development in the Dustin-and-Chris dynamic. Mark really, really needs to start paying more attention to them. 

“I don’t have to talk to him just because you told me to,” Mark mutters. 

“Maybe not, but if Chris says you have to, then you _definitely_ have to.”

Mark looks helplessly at Chris, who smiles meanly and sinks back into the couch. 

“Mark Zuckerberg,” Chris begins. Mark flinches. “You are going to email Eduardo, you are going to _apologize,_ and you are going to get over yourself.” 

Dustin claps, because he’s Dustin. Mark looks away from his friends and at the floor, because he’s Mark and will never pass up the opportunity to seem cool and uncaring. He doesn’t even mention that Dustin said basically that exact thing already. He also doesn’t mention that he would’ve emailed Eduardo already if he could think of a single fucking thing to say. 

Chris remains smug and cocky, which is why he’s a great PR guy and an even better best friend. Arrogant in the face of chaos. Mark is almost the same way, but he doesn’t think that his fake-it-till-you-make-it confidence really counts. 

“Why don’t I just call him?” Mark asks. It seems more personal, more like something Eduardo would appreciate. He was all about that- grand gestures and big speeches. _Eighteen thousand dollars_ and _Lawyer up, asshole!_ flash through Mark’s mind. 

“I can proofread an email. I cannot make sure you don’t say something horribly rude and insensitive the second you open your mouth, no matter how much I prep you,” Chris says simply, like it’s common knowledge. 

“Less damage control,” Dustin offers. Chris nods. 

“You’re not going to be reading the emails I send him,” Mark says hotly. 

“Like hell I’m not. Mark, you have the emotional maturity of a baby. You’ll make him commit homicide before you get him to forgive you,” Chris argues. 

“Is that the goal? To beg for forgiveness?” Mark sneers. 

“The goal is to make Mommy and Daddy stop fighting,” Dustin adds, unhelpfully. 

“The goal,” Chris says, irritated already, “is to get you two talking again. The goal is for both of you to apologize. Forgiveness comes later, on your own terms.”

“Eduardo has nothing to apologize for,” Mark says. When he’s met with shocked stares, he feels a little dumb. He shifts in his seat. 

“He sued you,” Chris says slowly, like Mark is a child who needs to be talked down to. 

“Only because I did something shitty.” 

Chris and Dustin give him twin looks of confusion, relief, and something very close to sheer rage. Chris more so, because apparently Mark took some time off from being a sniveling, stone cold little brat and worked through his feelings without him. He was never mad at Eduardo for closing the account, he had realized. He was mad at him for not being there, for doing it from so many miles away that they couldn’t even yell at each other in person, they had to do it _over the phone._ He was mad at the crack in Wardo’s voice as he said _I just needed to get your attention!,_ mad at the spike of bitterness it left in Mark’s mouth. He was never really mad at Eduardo. Just simply pissed off at the circumstances. (Pissed off that he was losing his best friend and he couldn’t look up from a screen long enough to realize it.)

Mark is still in Eduardo’s corner, even though they haven’t spoken in years. That has to count for something. 

He opens up his laptop and goes to his email. He hits _compose_ and types up the first thing he can think of. 

subject: _hey_

_chris and dustin said i should email u so i’m doing that before i get too in my head ab it. so hello. i hope ur doing well._

_-m.z._

He hits send and promptly shuts his computer. Chris is glaring daggers at him. 

“You did not,” he says carefully. Mark shrugs. 

“I figured it was pointless to talk about it when I could just do it.”

“Please tell me you didn’t say anything too Zuckerberg,” Chris says, a little hysterical. 

“Please tell me you said something very Zuckerberg,” Dustin says cheerfully, leaning over to place a hand on Chris’s arm. Again, weird, but Dustin has always been touchy so Mark doesn’t think much of it. 

“Don’t use my last name as an adjective. I just said hello. Is that so bad?” he teases. Chris looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. Mark

smiles. 

The rest of the workday goes smoothly. Well, as smoothly as it can when his two right hand men are Chris and Dustin, the latter of whom has taken to cutting out little paper dolls, labeling them _Mark_ and _Eduardo,_ and acting out a dramatized version of what he thinks their big, epic reunion will be like. (There’s a lot of kissing noises. Mark kicks him out when he lays them on top of each other.) Chris just keeps fucking _doting,_ which is both annoying and reminds him too much of Wardo. So he kicks him out too, tells him to _go find Dustin, you two can plot my inevitable demise somewhere that won’t bother me._ Chris flushes down to the neck at the mention of Dustin, makes a furious looking face and gives Mark the bird. Which is like, _so_ unprofessional but also so unbelievably funny that Mark gives him one right back. 

Mark refrains from checking his email until he’s about to head home, despite it being the only thing he can think about. He’s given Eduardo a solid twelve or so hours to respond. That should be enough time. Mark holds his breath as he clicks on his inbox. 

subject: _hey to you_

_Why do you type like a teenager?_

_Tell Dustin and Chris I said hi. Yes, I’m doing well. Same old, same old. I hope you’re doing well, too. Do you still not drink water? Tell me that you’ve at least been showering._

_-e.s._

Mark feels like his face is going to split in half from how hard he’s smiling. This is good. This is better than he could have ever hoped for, better than he could even begin to fathom. Eduardo joked with him. Eduardo spoke to him with something other than cold resentment. Mark considers this to be a win. 

He hurries home, for no particular reason other than he feels like he needs to be somewhere alone for the next few hours. Like if he’s around anyone they’ll be able to tell that he’s just brimming to the top with pure fucking _joy._

Mark feels like he should wait. He doesn’t want to seem overeager (even though he is very, very eager), and he doesn’t want to scare Wardo away or anything. Eduardo might only be responding out of pure politeness. Civility. If Mark emails him back too soon he might lose whatever was making Eduardo even consider speaking to him. 

But he also wants to talk to Wardo again as soon as possible, so screw dignity and boundaries and whatever bullshit Chris would try to trip him up with. 

subject: _i shower every day, i’ll have u know._

_i type for efficiency and speed._

_i drank oj (w vodka) last night. does that count? at least i won’t get scurvy._

_-m.z._

He hits send before he can think about it too hard. He glances at the clock. It’s only nine. He could stay up, work on some code, toy around with the new update because despite what anyone says, there is always something to be fixed. His fingers drum against the desktop. He feels a little restless, a little eager to see what he can get done, but if he goes to sleep, he’ll hopefully wake up to an email from Eduardo, and that sounds a lot better than coding. (He is never going to let anyone know that.)

He slips under the covers and closes his eyes. He rolls over and shuts them again. He readjusts his legs, he slips his arm under his pillow, he fucking counts sheep in his head before he realizes that there’s no way he can fall asleep before midnight. Which sucks for like, multiple reasons, but mainly because he has to be awake for so long without talking to Wardo. 

He looks at the laptop on his desk. He could, in theory, email Eduardo again. He doesn’t know what time it is in Singapore, but he doesn’t really care. He also doesn’t care if he comes off as clingy, or weird, or moving too fast. He misses Eduardo and he’ll email him if he wants to because he is an _adult_ who makes his own decisions. Chris Hughes be damned. 

He gets out of bed and sits at his desk. His inbox is empty but that’s not surprising (even if it does feel a little disappointing). 

subject: _do u have the time?_

_what time is it there? i can‘t go to sleep before midnight, i guess. remember when u couldn’t sleep and we watched like ten nature documentaries? and u couldn’t watch the part where the turtle babies have to get to the ocean bc they kept dying and it made u too sad? that was rlly funny. i don’t think those actually helped u sleep, u probably just wanted to see if i would cry too. (i kinda did. shhh.)_

_do u still have trouble sleeping?_

_-m.z._

He halts, hovers his mouse over the send button. Is bringing up the past too much? Eduardo kind of did, in his email. But that was a joke, a jab at Mark, a breaking of the ice. This is- this is Mark bringing up the past, their friendship. This is Mark laughing at Eduardo’s tears before admitting he cried, too. This is bringing up the night they fell asleep on the couch, Mark’s head on Eduardo’s shoulder. This is a declaration of affection. Adoration. Mark refuses to say love. 

He asked a lot of Wardo, but he never asked for _that._ He never asked him to take the final leap. He wonders if Eduardo would have. He wonders if Eduardo would take it now. 

He wonders if he would take it, too. 

Maybe Mark is like a baby turtle, and Eduardo is the sea. He can try to get there, but something might happen. A bird, a beach dog, a lawsuit, a website. Is it even worth the journey?

(Despite all of this, the turtles still try. They never stay behind. Mark thinks that might mean something.)

He hits send and snaps his laptop shut before he comes up with anymore stupid turtle metaphors. He looks at the clock again. 

_9:45._ Fuck. 

He opens his laptop again, desperate to do something with all of the energy thrumming through his body. 

He wires in. He spends a few hours smoothing out the kinks of the new profile update (because there’s _always something to be fixed),_ and then he spends a few more hours fucking around with layouts that he would never actually implement. It’s fun, to be able to go so deep inside the code and have it all splayed out before him, to have it be his to twist and tangle until it works. He wishes more people understood that. 

He crawls into bed around two-thirty, too tired to remember to check his email. Hopefully sleep will bring some clarity to all of these stupid fucking feelings he keeps getting. 

—

He doesn’t get an email from Wardo for two weeks. 

It doesn’t bother him. It _doesn’t._ Eduardo is a busy person. He’s an adult with a job and a schedule and a life that doesn’t involve Mark in any way, shape, or form anymore. He has every right to not respond to a few bullshit emails. 

He doesn’t think about it. The update launches and it goes fine. He stays up through the night it goes live, only a little bit anxious but Dustin pumps him full of Jack and Cokes so the worst he can do is vaguely worry. He keeps a hard eye on the site for the next few days, though, and it’s almost enough to drive all thoughts of Eduardo from his head completely. Almost. 

He does a few interviews and goes to some tech-gala and he even indulges a group of interns who ask him out for drinks (he’s all about indulging optimistic, yuppy twenty-one year olds). 

He spends two whole weeks definitely not thinking about Eduardo, and _definitely not_ feeling an overwhelming sense of betrayal. 

He gets a call on the first day of the third week. He hits accept and ignores any and all reminders of stranger danger that rush through his head. 

“Mark,” Eduardo says, because Mark doesn’t need Caller ID to recognize that voice. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Mark?”

His throat feels too dry to even try to talk. This is the first time he’s heard Eduardo’s voice since the depositions. He sounds worried, but under that he sounds _older;_ he sounds more mature and kind of tired. Something in Mark’s chest pulls as he realizes that Eduardo went and grew up without him. That he wasn’t around to see Wardo become who he was meant to be. 

“Mark, I-“

Mark hangs up. 

He’s panicking, he registers distantly. His hands are shaking and he feels like puking. He stands up from his desk, stalks out of his office, ignores a few alarmed looks and hunts down Chris. 

Chris is in the break room, eyes squinted at his laptop, gummy worm half hanging out of his mouth. He doesn’t look up until Mark says _Chris,_ because something in his voice must catch and then he’s being led gently to the couch and talked to in a hushed, sweet tone. 

“Hey, talk to me, Mark. For once, just talk to me.”

“He called me,” Mark says. It comes out strangled and breathless. Chris tightens his hand around Mark’s arm. 

“Okay. What did he say?”

Mark’s stomach sinks. He suddenly feels really, really embarrassed. 

“I… I don’t know. I hung up.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“You _what?”_

“I panicked!”

“You hung up on him?!” Chris half shouts. He’s standing now, towering above Mark to make him feel even smaller and more stupid. Mark sinks back into the couch. 

At that moment, Sean Parker waltzes in, clad in a Walmart graphic t-shirt and black skinny jeans that have several disconcerting stains on them. He takes one look at Mark, shrunken into himself, sweating, eyes locked firmly on the opposite wall, and grins. 

“Is it finally happening? Is Mark Zuckerberg _finally_ breaking down?”

“Sean, out, now,” Chris says, but he sounds worlds away. Everything sounds underwater. 

“I thought after the whole Wardo thing you might actually be a robot. Like, you didn’t even cry _once,_ dude. I started a betting pool with the temps to see if your wires would ever peak out of your Gap hoodie.” 

Something about Sean saying _Wardo,_ especially like _that,_ all sneer and hollow amusement, sets something in Mark off. He stands up and strides over to wear Sean is leaning against the doorframe, like the fake-casual douchebag that he is. 

“Why don’t you go _fuck yourself,_ Sean?” he spits, vicious and cold and it feels good, it feels _so good_ to see Sean’s face crumple up like that, to hear him squawk something wordless. Maybe he never realized how mad he was at Sean for pushing him to do all of this, for filling up his head with empty promises that if he could just get everything in the right place, they’d be golden. The right place has _always_ been wherever Wardo is. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to figure that out. 

Chris snorts behind him, clearly trying to not break into a full laugh. Sean schools his face into something more arrogant, something less boy-caught-with-a-joint-at-a-music-festival. He gives Mark a smile that’s all teeth. 

“Awe, did baby learn to stand up for himself? Good on you. I don’t think I’m the one you should be yelling at, though.”

He leans in closer to Mark. Mark, in that moment, gets why Eduardo hated him. Sean has an extremely punchable face. 

“You might wanna direct that towards the guy who smashed up your laptop and, y’know, _sued you.”_

Before Mark can lunge or say something that’ll surely turn into a PR nightmare, Chris comes up and shoves (like, actually physically _pushes)_ Sean out of the break room. Mark‘s about to make some quip about _what is that guy even doing here, when’s the last time he did any actual work_ but he looks up and sees Chris smiling at him. The words get lodged in his throat. 

“Don’t tell anyone I said this. I am so proud of you for doing that.”

Mark still feels jittery and sick to his stomach, but he smiles a little, despite himself. 

“Now, can we talk? I think we should talk,” Chris says. He leans against the table. 

Mark is pulled back to that night with Dustin just a little over two weeks ago. Too much vodka and _call him_ and only being able to go back to sleep by imagining Eduardo pressed up against his back. 

“Chris, I think…“ he starts, but he isn’t sure where he’s going with it. 

Chris waits. He fixes Mark with a disgustingly understanding look and crosses his arms. 

“I’m in love with Eduardo,” he says. Which is totally not what he wanted to say. He was leaning more towards a _I should apologize_ or _we should fly him out here,_ but now _this_ is out in the open and Chris is definitely a little shellshocked. 

“Mark,” he starts slowly. 

“Again, so proud of you, trust me, I know how hard that is to admit to yourself and other people. But… did you seriously _just_ realize that?”

Mark glares at him. Then he thinks. And he thinks. And he feels really, really embarrassed. Again. 

“Well, no, I mean- yes, kind of, but-“

“Oh my _god,”_ Chris says, and he’s _laughing,_ that goddamn son of a bitch. Mark doesn’t get what’s so fucking funny. 

“Fuck off! This is- this is a _moment-“_

“Did you just call this a moment-“

“I will fire you. I’m not even joking.”

Chris stops laughing, but he’s still smiling really big and he’s about two seconds away from giving Mark a hug. Mark decides to barrel over him this time before he gets made fun of again. 

“What do I do, Chris? What do I do about this?”

Chris takes a deep breath. His smile drops into something more serious. He looks a shade less sympathetic, more bitter honesty and hard truths clear on his face. He looks away, at the vending machine. His back is ramrod straight. 

“Just because you love someone… it doesn’t mean it’s enough. Just loving someone is never enough. It’s a start, but you’ll have to work and pull and _try._ You’ll have to talk to him, Mark. And it could get ugly, and it’s gonna be awkward as hell, but he’s worth it, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is,” Mark says fiercely. “He’s always been worth it.”

_But am I?_ Mark thinks to himself. He’s worth a lot, in money and knowledge and sheer determination, but he doesn’t know if he’s worth _this_ to Wardo. He doesn’t know if he’s worth the forgiveness and the apologies and the goddamn pain in the ass getting over everything will be. 

Getting over everything probably shouldn’t be the end goal. He’s not _over_ what happened he’s just… not angry anymore. He knows that he’ll have to work to get Eduardo’s trust back and that’s gonna suck like, big time. But, like he said, _he’s worth it._

“Then you need a game plan, big boy,” Chris says, all determined and sure of himself like he always is. He sets his jaw the way he does when he has some crazy press bullshit to deal with- Mark and Dustin have dubbed it his Take Over The World Face. (The four of them could, if they really wanted. They just have to get Eduardo back first. Then they can fucking dominate.)

—

Eduardo does end up calling him back that night. He’s at home, thank God, and he steels himself before answering. 

“Hello,” he says, flat and dead. He winces. 

“So, you wanna, um, explain why you-?”

Mark smiles a little, flushes even though Eduardo isn’t even here. He’s in Singapore and he’s making Mark get all _flustered._

“Not yet, no.”

Wardo huffs a laugh but it’s not bitter or cruel or anything other than warm, familiar bemusement at Mark’s bluntness. Maybe he’s done exactly what Mark has. Detached himself enough from what happened so that they can simply start over. 

“We should talk,” Wardo says softly. Mark groans. 

“Everyone keeps making me talk. It’s like you guys don’t even _know_ me,” he whines, all fake upset just to get Eduardo to snort, roll his eyes, knock their shoulders together even though he _isn’t here_ and that’s a problem Mark needs to fix like, yesterday. 

“I don’t anymore. Not really,” Eduardo says softly. 

“Wardo.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, fuck, I’m sorry, I just meant- we’re both different now. We’ve changed. And maybe that’s- maybe that’s-“

“For the better,” Mark finishes. _Bullshit we don’t know each other anymore. I’d know you if I forgot everything else._

“Maybe,” Eduardo sighs, and Mark can practically see the furrow in his brow, the droop of his mouth and he definitely has a hand on his hip. Mark’s got Eduardo down pat, and Mark hasn’t changed enough in the past few years for Eduardo to have to totally relearn him. They don’t need to start over, Mark decides. They can just pick up where they left off. (Well, not exactly where they left off, which was with Eduardo refusing to make eye contact with him as he signed that stupid fucking paper, all frown and anger and the unmistakable feeling of grief thick in the air.)

“Why’d you call me?” Mark asks. He’s lying down on his couch, laptop half forgotten on the coffee table. 

“I was angry for a really long time, Mark. I think i still might be. But I also…. fuck, I missed you so much.”

Mark’s heart stops, seriously fucking halts in his chest and he closes his eyes tight. His mind repeats the words over and over. 

_I missed you. I missed you._ **_I missed you._ **

They sound horribly decadent every time. Somewhere deep down Mark knows he doesn’t deserve them, that they don’t mean anything more than Eduardo suddenly being without a best friend, just like Mark was. They used to be so delicately wrapped up in each other’s lives, and now they’re loose and scattered around the entire fucking world. They’re so far from each other now, in so many ways, but Mark thinks if he could just figure this out- the getting Wardo’s trust back part- they could be together again. Or, at the very least, they could stop being continents apart. There’s a restless humming in Mark’s ribs, singing _bring him home bring him home bring him home_ as loud as he can stand it. It’s been there for years. Fuck, it’s been there since that summer, when Eduardo was only a phone call away but seemed so much further. It scares him, how much he needs Wardo to be here and whole next to him. He needs it so bad sometimes it feels like he’s suffocating with it.

“I… um, me too. You know, the, uh-”

“You missed me?” Eduardo says, teasing and amused but also soft, breathless, fond, and oh, God Mark needs him here _now._

“You should come out here,” Mark says, cringing as soon as he realizes what he’s asking. Begging Wardo to come to Palo Alto has never worked out in his favor. 

“Oh, no,” Wardo says immediately. Mark’s heart sinks. 

“But, you’re going to fly out here,” he says after a pause, the _bastard,_ letting Mark get all _upset._

But he gets it. Mark doesn’t get to ask Wardo for things like that anymore- no more pleading for him to uproot his life, no more _I need you out here_ no matter how true it is, no more taking without giving. (That’s their problem, he thinks. Eduardo would light himself on fire to keep Mark warm and Mark wouldn’t even think to thank him. But they can change that. He’s going to change that.)

“Singapore’s a long way from home,” Mark mutters, but he’s already working out the schedule in his head, trying to figure out how quickly he could get out there. 

“California’s a long way from Singapore,” Eduardo says back, mocking, but Mark is so surprised that he didn’t refer to Singapore as _home_ that he can’t find the energy to be annoyed. 

“Yeah,” is all Mark says, so quiet he’s not even sure Wardo heard him. 

“Mark, I….”

Mark waits. 

“I need to tell you something, but I think it should wait until you’re here.”

Mark feels something in him crack. Eduardo sounds scared, full of dread and that can’t be good. Wardo is supposed to be the optimistic one, the let's-go-out-to-celebrate one. Mark is pretty sure he knows what’s coming. _I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can forgive you. I want you out of my life for good. Don’t talk to me again._

“Mark?”

Mark blinks. He’s in his living room, on his couch, talking to Eduardo on the phone. He’s _talking_ to _Eduardo._

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he says. 

“I should get going, sorry for calling you so late. Well, it’s early here, but- I did want to say… your email? The second one, I mean. I… yeah. I still have trouble falling asleep.”

He hangs up as soon as he says it, and Mark burns white hot from the inside out. He has this _feeling_ in the pit of his stomach and he needs to do something with it, needs to figure out a way to get rid of the itchiness in his palms. 

He considers his options. He could code (he can’t imagine being able to focus on anything else other than Eduardo saying _I missed you_ and offering to fly him out right now). He could jerk off (he can’t imagine being able to think about anything other than Eduardo, and that feels like a serious invasion of _something)._ He could sleep. It’s barely two in the morning and he thinks he has some sort of meeting tomorrow, so it’s not a terrible idea. He could also call Chris but there’s no way he’s up right now.

No harm in trying. 

The line rings once, twice, three times. There’s a burst of static and then a quiet voice murmuring, “Hello?”

“Chris?” Mark says. 

“Shit,” someone who is definitely not Chris says. Huh. 

There’s a loud rustling from the other end, muffled sounds that sound a lot like _it’s Mark!_ and _fuck fuck fuck._

“Hey, Mark,” Chris says. He sounds barely awake and royally pissed off. A familiar sounding giggle can be heard in the background and Mark’s eyes widen as he thinks, _gotcha._

“Are you in bed with Dustin right now?” he asks, trying to keep his voice mild and disinterested. 

“What? No, of- of course not, why would you-”

“Chris. Please. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable!” Dustin shouts, and there’s more rustling as Chris (presumably) reaches over to smack his arm. 

“Dustin’s straight,” Mark says, but it sounds lame and slow as it comes out. Of course he’s not. Of course _none_ of them are. (Except for Eduardo.) (Well, jury’s still out on that one.)

“We will talk about this in the morning,” Chris says bitterly over Dustin shouting “Again, debatable!”

The line goes dead. Mark closes his eyes for a second, trying to process everything that’s happened in the past twenty four hours. 

He came out to Chris. Well, he _confessed_ to Chris, which is similar but not the same because he’s not even sure what the fuck he is except very much in love with Eduardo, and he’s counting on that one to carry out until he’s good and dead. 

He and Eduardo had an actual _conversation_ that didn’t end in one of them screaming or crying or sending the other a team of lawyers. Eduardo invited him to Singapore. 

He told Sean Parker to go fuck himself. 

Chris and Dustin are… _a thing._

He needs to go to sleep before something else batshit happens. He won’t even entertain any possibilities. (His mind flashes him servers crashing, assets liquidating, a meteor or two burning through the atmosphere. He shakes them away.)

He falls into bed and is pleased when sleep comes quickly. His brain hardly ever shuts off, and despite the lack of productivity sleep produces, it is nice to just stop for awhile. 

—

Chris and Mark don’t talk about it in the morning. Mark half forgets, his attention too preoccupied with everything else going on. He doesn’t say anything when he sees Dustin kiss Chris’s cheek, though. It’s definitely not the strangest recent development in his life. 

Mark books a flight to Singapore two days later. He talks to Eduardo a little bit, finding out when he’s free so Mark isn’t intruding or anything.

“Mark Zuckerberg, taking other people’s priorities into account? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I will cancel my flight.”

“No, you won’t,” Eduardo says, smile clear in his voice and well, he’s right. 

He’s set to leave the day after tomorrow, a drowsy Thursday where they have nothing going on, and stay until Monday. Three days with Eduardo. Three whole days where they can just talk and laugh and _be._ Or, at least that’s what Mark hopes they can do. He’s been trying very hard to ignore the anxiety that’s taken root in his stomach ever since Wardo called him. There’s an overwhelming fear of not doing it right, of fucking everything up and going home without Eduardo _again_ and having him be out of his life for real this time. It carries through to Wednesday, and he almost throws up as Chris gives him some bullshit peptalk.

“Oh, my god. You fucking mess,” Chris says fondly. He hasn’t moved from his perch on the edge of Mark’s desk, instead just watching his fucking _boss_ dry heave over a trashcan. 

“Water,” Mark bites out. 

“I’m not your secretary,” Chris says back, but he moves to grab a water bottle out of the minifridge anyways. 

Mark takes it, drinks half of it in one gulp, and buries his head in his hands. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him. Why can’t he just- God, why is this making him so fucking nervous? _Get a grip, dude._

“Mark,” Chris says sternly. Mark ignores him.

“Mark, hey- look at me- Mark. You are going to be _fine._ I promise.”

Mark wants to say something childish, like _you don’t know that_ or _I absolutely will not be,_ but he’s tired and Chris is using some of his reserved gentleness on him, so he just nods and slumps against his desk. 

“What if he… God, Chris, what if I ruined this forever?”

“You didn’t,” Chris says softly. And somehow, that’s all it takes. 

He goes home to pack. Actually, Chris has to all but threaten him to go home _right now, you dramatic bitch,_ but he’s grateful for the extra time. He spends twenty minutes trying to figure out if he should pack nice clothes, since he’s technically trying to woo Eduardo, but the only dress shirt he has is stained and _reeks_ of Jameson (going to the dry cleaner’s is so fucking annoying, okay). He also realizes that that’s not how Eduardo knows him- cleaned up, dressed nice, prim and proper. Eduardo was friends with that kid who never showered (that still happens sometimes) and ate tuna straight out of the can (that also definitely still happens like, an alarming amount) and couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Mark is still that asshole Harvard student almost as much as he isn’t anymore. He’s still that kid in all the ways that matter. He needs to Wardo to see that. He tosses the shirt back into his closet and zips his suitcase closed. 

He spends a few hours fucking around on Facebook, making sure everything is up to standard and won’t need his supervision for the next three days. He checks his email too, just in case he’s forgotten some stupid board meeting and will have to give Chris a heads up to cover for him. 

His hands still on his keyboard when he sees Eduardo’s email address right there in his inbox, unopened, new, he has a fucking email from Eduardo and oh, God, this can’t be good. 

_subject: calm down._

_Hey, I know you’re freaking out right now. It’s going to be okay, Mark. I don’t bite. Just chill out, okay? I know this is going to sound batshit crazy to you, but try to relax for once in your life. You’re going to be on a plane for almost a full day, and I know you’re not going to take any of Sean’s Xanax._

_-e.s._

Mark smiles. His eyes sting and his cheeks feel a little wet but he’s choosing to ignore it, because this is Eduardo, telling Mark he’s going to be fine. This is them. As simple and clean as Mark’s ever known it, this is Mark and Eduardo, simply just… taking care of each other. His chest feels tight at the thought. 

He doesn’t think about any of the potential catastrophes that could happen. He doesn’t think about Wardo closing the door in his face, about them screaming at each other, about him realizing that he went too far, that this is unfixable and broken for good. He refuses to. He’s always had faith in him and Eduardo. They were best friends. That doesn’t just go away. 

__

The flight to Singapore is long and uneventful and Mark’s back hurts like hell when they land. He’s full of nervous excitement, too nauseous to eat anything yet almost dizzy with hunger. Wardo’s going to kill him once he finds out he hasn’t eaten since California. 

As he walks out of the terminal, he realizes he doesn’t know any Malay. Or Chinese. There are a few signs in English, pointing towards restaurants and bathrooms and baggage claim, but he has no idea how to even begin to hail a cab, or what he would say to the driver if he did successfully flag one down. 

Panic shoots white hot through him as he entertains the idea of being stranded at an airport in Singapore. He could call Eduardo, but that’s embarrassing, Mark isn’t his _responsibility,_ Mark is an adult who didn’t think ahead about landing in a country he’s never been to that speaks a language he never learned. (He took four years of Spanish and one of conversational French. None of that helps him in this situation.) He starts thinking _oh God oh God oh God_ when the PA comes on and announces what Mark can only assume is a departure. He really doesn’t know shit about Singapore. 

Luckily for him, Eduardo is right there, half-jogging towards him.

There’s Eduardo. Smiling at him with that smile Mark hasn’t seen in _years._

Mark feels lightheaded. He goes to move forward and ends up fainting.

__

He comes to in an uncomfortable airport chair. Eduardo is on his right, and his hand is _cupping_ Mark’s _face,_ and he’s very gently telling Mark to _wake the fuck up, asshole._ Mark blinks a few times, trying to register what the shit is going on. 

“W… Wardo?” he says, but his throat is dry and his tongue feels heavy. 

“Holy shit. You _asshole,”_ Eduardo hisses, but it’s all fond and worried. 

“I… I didn’t eat. Since um. Palo Alto,” he says sheepishly. Eduardo frowns. 

“I figured. Get up, I’m taking you to my apartment. We can order out. Idiot,” Eduardo says. He stands, holds out his hand for Mark to grab. Mark figures it’s because he just passed out, and not for… any other reasons. Definitely not. 

“Isn’t anyone concerned that I like, fainted?” Mark asks, noticing a few wary glances being shot his way. 

“I told them you weren’t use to flying. Altitude changes, and all that,” Eduardo says as he walks them to his car. His hand is on Mark’s lower back, guiding them briskly and easily through the busy airport. Mark is trying very hard to not think about it. 

Mark slides into the passenger’s seat of Eduardo’s car (Eduardo fucking _opened his door for him)_ and lets himself… marvel a little bit at everything. Here he is, in Singapore, sitting in Eduardo Saverin’s car. They haven’t argued or beat the shit out of each other yet. Despite everything, it feels vaguely familiar. Like, if they said the right words and shifted far enough into place, they could slip back into their old routine and act like nothing ever happened. It makes Mark feel giddy. 

They drive to Eduardo’s apartment in silence, but it’s not heavy or angry, it’s just them. Mark is restless in his seat, too lightheaded to try and start a conversation but cognizant enough to fiddle. He tugs and tugs on the same curl for about five minutes, watching Eduardo’s smile grow from out of the corner of his eye. 

“How was your flight?” Wardo says as they pull into a parking garage. 

“Long,” Mark says. Eduardo smiles, nods. 

Mark blinks, and they’re in the apartment. He blinks, and he’s sitting down on the couch. He blinks, and he’s waking up, the sky darkening outside of the giant windows in Eduardo’s apartment. He feels lost, and confused, and sweaty. Eduardo is standing at the kitchen counter, holding a takeout menu and talking on the phone. Mark sits up.

Wardo catches his eye and smiles. Mark goes hot all through his body. He looks away. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty. I ordered pizza,” Eduardo says gently, moving towards the couch. 

“Okay,” Mark says, because he’s a fucking idiot and doesn’t know what to say in a situation like this, and also Eduardo is sitting very, very close to him. Eduardo just laughs.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. He’s weird, Mark thinks. He’s always acting like he knows something that Mark doesn’t, like he’s just waiting for Mark to figure it all out. Fucking weirdo. 

“You wanted to tell me something,” Mark says quietly. Eduardo stills.

“Mark… “

Oh, God, Mark feels like he is going to _die._ His heart won’t stop hammering in his chest and shit, he’s not having a panic attack right now, he is _not._

“Okay, I might- I might ramble, or get lost, or something but… you have to listen to me, Mark. I need you to _listen_ to me. Please,” Eduardo says, and his voice is filled with such conviction that, well, Mark has no choice other than to nod his head and turn himself towards Wardo.

“Look, I… I’m not mad at you anymore. At least, I don’t think I am. But that- that doesn’t fucking _matter,_ Mark. You still hurt me. In such a, a _personal_ way. And I’m not even sure that you feel bad about it.”

“Wardo-”

“No, hey. I’m not done. That doesn’t matter, either. Because I just… I just need to tell you that I care about you, Mark. I always have. I never hated you. God, even when I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you, all I wanted was… was for you to tell me that you were sorry, and that you loved me.” 

His voice cracks as he says the last few words, his eyes big and shiny with tears. _Oh, fuck._

“Maybe one day I’ll stop taking you back, and maybe one day I’ll stop fucking _needing you_ this bad, but I guess today is just not that day.”

A beat.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I missed you, though.”

“What about now?” Mark says, and he’s terrified but also impossibly brave because for once in his life, he’s _got this._ He knows what to say and he knows what needs to be said and oh, man, Eduardo’s going to flip his fucking lid. 

“What?”

“You said that during the depositions, all you wanted was for me to say that I was sorry and that I love you. What about now? What do you want now?”

“Mark-”

“I’m sorry, Wardo.”

“Mark, don’t.”

“I love you.”

Eduardo goes still and Mark remembers _that night_ again, remembers leaning on Eduardo and feeling rigid tension underneath him. Except this time he’s sober, and he’s not fucking nineteen anymore and he knows, he _knows_ exactly what Eduardo needs and wants, and he’s so ready to give it to him. He’s ready to give him everything in the world. That’s not a feeling he’s used to, this kind of endlessly selfless sacrifice, but fuck it- love makes people do crazy things, right? Love makes you run across campus at two in the morning, makes you name him CFO, makes you invest too much money in a barely-there-project, makes you dilute and scream and sue and settle. Love makes you make mistakes, big ones, but it also lets you forgive and forget. Love allows you to move on, because at the end of the day, his heart and his time and his stupid fucking doe eyes are worth more than nineteen thousand dollars. He is worth more than your entire fortune. 

Mark also knows that he’s not exactly made for love. He knows who he is; he’s bitter and angry and mean and repressed. He pushes and takes and he’s a selfish asshole a lot of the time. But he also wants (so badly, more than anything in the world) to be more than that, for Eduardo. He wants to let himself learn how to love in ways that don’t hurt. 

“Wardo, I said-”

“I know what you said! Jesus Christ, man, you can’t just fucking _do_ that.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“At least give a guy some warning,” Eduardo says, all teasing smile and warm hands and bright eyes and oh, _oh._

One of them leans in first. Mark isn’t quite sure who. But then Eduardo’s mouth is on his, and his hands are in Mark’s hair, and they’re laughing at each other and themselves and Eduardo is saying _I love you, I love you,_ so he really can’t be bothered to care. 

**Author's Note:**

> ending the decade by posting a 10k fic for THE movie of the decade. incredible. 
> 
> come bully me on tumblr @bloodyknucklez or on twitter @nochildrenmp3!!


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